Poems by Members - page 1
When the ascent of Man began, the monkey became an also ran As man invented things to provide his fun And it really was a shame about the monkey's little brain Because he never learned to suck smoke into his lungs And he did not seem to care if his mate didn't have blonde hair And she was not gullible enough for fashion So she didn't rant and rave for silicone implants Because environmentally friendly was their ration.
ex "The Light of Day"
Nowhere but here, sheltered in limestone clefts among the crags of Steepholm, this relic of a monastic past survives. For centuries it has renewed its ancient lineage and every year in crimson robes of state and with a stamen crown of gold, asserts a precedence and regal power. While on the Severn shore common members of the kingdom thrive in their workaday way. Dull glasswort and ordinary fescue spread their roots in estuary mud. Only on the contoured sand-banks a few colonies of anchored marram grass face the island dome across the river flow and bow their heads in the prevailing wind.
This poem has recently been published in an anthology of 100 Island Poems edited by James Knox Whittet and published by Iron Press (www.ironpress.co.uk). It surveys the islands of Great Britain and Ireland in poems by modern poets including John Betjeman, Eavan Boland, Seamus Heaney, Michael Longley. The poems are in a variety of voices and styles and each is accompanied by a map.
Peering out of the frosted, muggy window Onto the bleak, grey, misty concrete path Anxiously awaiting the presence of that heavenly face, When will I hear her soft, delicate footsteps approach? My childhood spirit paused in silent eternity, Waiting for her return so that I could feel safety once more. The longing to see her stand by her dressing room mirror, Amongst the candy coloured array, Pink lipstick, the scent of roses, Ponds cream for her soft, virginal hands, Shades to make her coffee cream skin Shine like the purity of an angel. Her lilac, spiralled knitting, Resting gently on her embroidered cushion, The minutes like hours and the hours like days, A picture frozen in time, perched on that window sill, Feelings of emptiness and nothingness Waiting for her loving smile to return. Sudden pounding excitement and expressions of joy, A vision of her distant emerging silhouette Armed with brightly coloured bags, lace, bangles and toys. Her incandescent smile, radiating colour once again, Stories of the day and her short escape, All I can whisper is, ‘Please don’t ever go away’. Today, as I stand by that glazed window, Peering out, watching the world pass by, Amongst the fumes and fog and silver sprayed machines, People marching in a workaholic daze, I still wait to hear that softly spoken voice, But her returns are now no more.
Pub. In “A Woman’s World” (Anchor Books)
(in response to the theme for the evening following the A.G.M., 2002)
All Goats Munch – But these goats munch the most, As leading lunch-time munchers They can quickly make a ghost Of thistles, pies or toast! They’ll munch on breakfast fry-ups, They’ll munch on Sunday roasts, They’ll even munch on ladies’ hats Or fancy petticoats! And though – They do not wish to boast, As super munchy crunchers, As leading lunch-time munchers, These goats munch the most!
(Sadly, John, our President for many years, died in March 2003)